


Lost and Found

by BozBozBoz



Series: LND Fixit AU [2]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Love Never Dies - Lloyd Webber, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, LND AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:21:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27266392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BozBozBoz/pseuds/BozBozBoz
Summary: A little something  for Spoopy Season.Kids sometimes ask the darndest questions...Christine tells Gustave a ghost story, and Erik isn't entirely sure if it's appropriate.
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Series: LND Fixit AU [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1990876
Comments: 12
Kudos: 67





	Lost and Found

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place some months post my LND Fix It Fic 'It's in Your Soul'. You don't need to have read the first fic to understand it, but it may help you appreciate the character dynamics.
> 
> Shameless fluffy fluff because, well, fluff.

‘Hateful, impossible, insufferable man!’ Christine huffed, slamming the door to her penthouse suite shut and throwing her muff violently onto the upholstered chair beside the door.

She stomped into the sitting room area, pulling pins out of her hat and jamming them into a pin cushion with uncharacteristic violence.

‘Who on earth does he think he is? Swanning about in his big black coat like some sort of overgrown spectre, making ridiculous eyes at the dancers from the wings...’

A throaty chuckle came from one of the high backed armchairs in the corner and Christine threw it a sharp glance.

‘You may well laugh,’ she said haughtily, ‘It is entirely your fault that we have to put up with his odious presence in the first place.’

The chuckle deepened, and there was a rustle of paper, before Erik rose from the chair in a fluid, long limbed movement, laying his newspaper on the sideboard. He looked at her, head cocked slightly to the side, the eyebrow on the unmarred side of his face raised.

‘You can’t say I didn’t warn you…’ he said, fighting to keep the smirk from his face.

‘I thought you were exaggerating,’ she pouted, ‘According to you almost everyone is an ‘insufferable fool’, ‘a great booby’, ‘immense niais,’ or something other of the sort.’ She pinched the bridge of her nose, and he strode over, placing a gentle kiss on the crown of her head.

‘Everyone except you, my dear,’ he replied softly.

‘I felt sure all he needed was a more gentle touch to bring him to line,’ she said, sinking into a chair and groaning in relief.

Erik chuckled again. ‘And now you know. And perhaps you understand why I thought it would be a good idea for you to meet with him, and not I? He is an important investor. It would be -  _ unfortunate  _ \- if anything should happen to him...’ He knelt gently on the floor before her, unlacing her boots and easing them from her feet.

Christine winced as his long fingers worked the knots in her calves and her aching arches.

‘Perhaps…’ she smirked. ‘You know, I was very close to asking whether the Opera Ghost might be persuaded to just take care of him…’

Erik’s eyebrow shot up, and a devilish smirk crossed over his features.

‘Oh indeed?’ he said smoothly, ‘I understood he had retired, and I am not sure he will be persuaded to return…’

Christine grinned, her bare foot making small, gentle swirls against the top of his thigh. ‘Oh, I think I can be very persuasive if I want to…’

Erik’s gaze darkened, and he swallowed convulsively, his hand, which was still massaging the back of her calves beginning to work slowly upwards.

‘Indeed?’ he asked.

‘What ghost?’ a small voice piped from the doorway behind Christine’s chair. ‘Is the music hall haunted?’

Erik dropped Christine’s leg as if it had burned him, and scooted backwards, standing quickly and fussing with his clothing.

‘Nothing!’ he said quickly, ‘Don’t be foolish. There is no such thing as ghosts.’

Christine giggled softly, laying a gentle hand on Erik’s arm and beckoning Gustave to them. The boy scuttled forward, pulling himself into her lap and nesting his head under her chin.

‘Now, that is just not true,’ she replied. ‘Surely everybody knows that all theatres have their ghost?’

Erik scowled, but Gustave’s eyes went wide in excitement.

‘Really Mama?’ he asked breathlessly.

‘Oh yes,’ she replied, smiling conspiratorially.

‘When I was a girl, my Papa told me of the ghost of a young man who used to appear at the stage door after performances late at night. He was said to be the ghost of a poor flyman, who had fallen madly in love with the Prima Donna. She was very beautiful, with long, flowing golden hair and the voice of an angel.

They had planned to run away together one night after the show, but she had a wealthy patron, who was very jealous, and he heard of their plans, so one night, after the performance was finished, he waited at the stage door for the flyman to leave, and he strangled him, then and there. When the Prima Donna came to leave, she found the body of her lover lying dead on the doorstep.

It was said that after that she never sang again and that her ghost could sometimes be seen walking the flys looking for him.’

Gustave’s eyes grew round, and he gasped in amazement. ‘Sometimes,’ she continued, ‘when members of the chorus were leaving at night, they would feel a presence at the stage door.

Some of the girls, especially the ones with beautiful long blonde hair felt an icy grip about their wrist as they tried to pass’ she gripped Gustave’s wrist tightly, and he jumped at the contact and Christine giggled. ‘It was always said it must have been him, waiting for his love to come and run away with him.’

Gustave gave her an incredulous look, and Erik rolled his eyes.

‘Have you ever seen one Mama?’ he asked, wonder and scepticism mixing in his voice.

‘Of course,’ she replied. ‘The Opera House in Paris was rather famously haunted, you know…’

Erik started, and threw her a questioning glance.

Gustave frowned. ‘Really?’ 

‘Oh yes,’ she replied matter of factly. ‘Once, it caused a huge chandelier to come crashing down from the ceiling, right at the end of the play. It landed right on the stage, in front of me. Any closer and I would have been squashed quite flat’ 

The colour drained from Erik’s face.

‘No!’ Gustave replied. ‘How do you know it was a ghost?’

‘We heard him laughing. Quite clearly.’ she replied.

‘Ghosts do not laugh’ Gustave replied solemnly.

‘Well this one did. Frequently. Although I do not think it was a laugh born of mirth.’

‘Why did the ghost want to squash you Mama?’ the boy asked, his voice laden with concern.

Erik made a small choking noise and turned away suddenly to stare at the bookcase behind him.

‘I think it was just very, very sad and angry,’ she replied gently, stroking the top of Gustave’s hair.

‘Did you ever see it?’ he whispered.

‘Oh yes,’ she replied. ‘Many, many times.’

‘Was it very scary?’ he squeaked, leaning back to look at his mother in the face.

‘Scary? ‘Sometimes, perhaps. But not always, no.’ Erik twitched slightly, but still did not turn around.

‘What did it look like?’ Gustave asked, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.

‘Like a man.’ She replied. ‘Just a tall, pale man. In an opera cloak, naturally. He was a very well dressed ghost.’

Gustave snorted. ‘I don’t believe you.’ 

Christine could have sworn Erik snorted too.

‘No?’

‘Ghosts don’t look like normal men. Ghosts are see-through, and dripping in blood.’

‘Ah! I see.’ she replied with a chuckle. ‘And you are the expert I suppose. How do you know this?’

‘I read it,’ he replied. ‘In a book.’

‘Well…’ she responded with a chuckle. ‘If that is the case, I bow to your superior knowledge.’

‘Do you believe in ghosts Papa Erik?’ Gustave asked innocently.

Slowly, Erik turned around, a schooled expression of neutrality in his eyes.

‘No.’ He replied slowly. ‘I do not… Do you?’

Gustave looked at him pensively for a moment and then, sliding slowly off Christine’s lap and rearranging his clothing he announced, rather grandly, ‘No. I do not.’

Christine laughed, and rose from the chair, kissing her son and the top of his head, before sliding her hand through the crook of Erik’s elbow and giving it a reassuring squeeze.

‘Indeed?’ she asked, mirth dancing at the edges of her voice, ‘and why is that?’

‘Because...’ the boy began thoughtfully, rubbing a small hand over his ridged little face with such an intensely serious expression that Christine had to bite back her laughter at it. ‘Because when you die, you go into the ground, and you rot. And that is all.’

‘Oh,’ said Christine, somewhat taken aback by the suddenly practical turn the conversation had taken.

‘I tried it with a mouse,’ he continued. ‘I found one underneath the elephant in the automaton display.’

Christine frowned.

‘It was already dead!’ he clarified quickly, ‘So I decided to bury it. Then I waited for two weeks and I dug it back up again.’ He paused, and then added with great brevity. ‘It was all full of maggots.’

Christine paled, and her eyes flickered to Erik, who appeared to have recovered his composure, and now wore a look of pride and satisfaction on his face.

‘Dead people cannot come back,’ he concluded firmly, ‘Not if they are all rotten and wormy.’

‘Ah,’ Christine replied, ‘I can see how that might be a problem.’ 

Gustave nodded gravely.

‘But what if we forget about the body for a moment, and concentrate on our soul?’ 

‘Our soul?’ he repeated. Erik huffed.

‘Yes,’ she replied, a little more firmly than she intended. ‘Your soul is the part of you that makes you you, and me, me.’

‘Does everybody have a soul?’ Gustave asked.

‘I think so. Don’t you?

‘Even bad people?’ he asked, his brow furrowing.

‘Especially bad people.’ She replied gently. ‘Bad people are just regular people who have been hurt badly at some point in their life. It is our job to see that, and to treat them with kindness, even if we don’t always feel like it.’

Beside her, Christine felt Erik’s arm twitch slightly.

Gustave nodded slowly, ‘And ghosts…’ he looked up to her expectantly.

Christine smiled. ‘A ghost is just a soul that has lost its way. And if a thing is lost, it follows that it can always be found…’

Gustave stared momentarily at his feet, and then nodded once in satisfaction.

‘If I meet the Opera Ghost, I am going to say hello and ask him if there is anything I can do to help,’ he said determinedly, and with that he stepped forward and threw his arms briefly around Christine and Erik, before turning to the bookcase and plucking a volume from its shelves. 

Erik watched the back of the boy’s head departing as he returned to his own room, a book now clutched firmly in his hand, before turning to stare at Christine with an expression of wonder on his face.

‘What?’ she replied, smirking.

‘I take it back,’ he said. ‘Other people may be boobies or fools, but you, madame, are completely and utterly mad.’

‘Mmm,’ she replied, ‘It must be something to do with the company I keep.’

Erik responded with something between a chuckle and a growl, and she smiled mischievously.

‘Now, Monsieur Ghost, I believe I promised to attempt to persuade you, before we were interrupted…’ 

Erik’s eyebrow quirked, and he smiled at her mischievously. ‘What was that you said about treating bad people with kindness, even when we don’t always feel like it?’

'Oh!’ Christine replied impishly, ‘If you are bad enough, I thoroughly intend to be kind to you - and you know, even the most angelic of souls is liable to lose their way every now and then…’

‘In that case, lead on Madame’ Erik replied, and taking her hand he followed her across the room, and over the threshold of her chamber.


End file.
